Disclaimer: I do not own Game of Thrones or the original novelization series "A Song Of Ice And Fire" by George R. R. Martin, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

The lowlands of Esos were littered with pinpricks of death. From Slaver's Bay to Vaes Dothrak you could find a hint of crimson on the weeds, a bit of carcass left to have its bones bleached in the sun, or perhaps if you were particularly lucky you could find a fresh corpse yet to be picked apart. Rarely, however, are ones lucky enough to find a corpse with anything of value remaining. Tonight there was a peculiar exception.

Khal Drogo's horde had a been visited by the would-be “Last Dragon”; or so he insisted upon calling himself. The posturing and preening Drogo had seen many time of the west-men. The soft ones who used pretty words to claim what they could not with strength of arms. The other west-men who had arranged this meeting were no longer traveling with the Khalasar. He sent them away as an act of mercy. This was not a common trait amongs the Dothraki, but Drogo knew the difference between strong men with poor judgment and the weak who needed to be reminded of their place. The Mormont man was the former – Viserys Targaryen was the latter.

The Targaryen boy had offered Drogo a particular prize – his own sister – as a gift. He insisted that Drogo marry this pale-skinned girl in exchange for the Khalasar's help in reclaiming his lost throne. Drogo would have none of this. He was honor bound to agree to these ridiculous terms if he took the girl for a wife. He would not. His men and horses would not cross the Narrow Sea for a boy playing at king to sit on a seat of iron.

That was when Viserys had lost his temper and made quite the fool of himself – drunkenly demanding this and that in a slurred high Westerosi tongue which Drogo could not stand to listen to for more than a minute. Without so much as a second thought he took the boys scants gold trappings as well as some of his recent plunder and ordered it boiled in a cauldron. And then with the boy pleading and whimpering like the fool he was, the molten metal covered his face, scalding away the skin and tissue as it sunk deep into his pores. No grave nor ceremony would be observed for “the Last Dragon”. He would be left to rot in the sun, leaving his meat for the animals and gold for any lucky plunderer to pass by after them.

There was the question of what to do with the Targaryen girl, however. The sister to the Last Dragon was woman enough, and now alone and helpless in the midst of a Dothraki tribe. But she shared blood with this fool whom he had murdered, and Drogo would not chance anything. He could kill her, but he preferred the idea of keeping her around if only for the entertainment of breaking her.

She was delivered to his tent, bound hand and foot in thick hempen rope, her arms taut behind her back. She was still wearing the soft blue dress that Viserys had presented her in, but the week with the tribe had already begun to wear on the fabric. Dirt and tears covered the doubtlessly expensive garment. Drogo had no use for it though, and therefore he didn't suffer her to wear it any longer.

She stood still and resolute, but with a slight tremor in her stance that she tried to hide. The dignified facade would break sooner or later if this simple act had begun to unnerve her. She was not as strong as she could have been if tempered by a proper man, or a better, more battle-laden life. Her metal was weak, and cracks began to show in the plating.

Drogo took a moment to observe her naked body as he tossed the dress to one of the servant girls who had brought her in.

“Burn it,” Drogo ordered. The fabric could be put to a thousand good uses, but this was a matter of establishing his point. The old life for this girl was over- ash in the wind.

Her body had some scars and bruises. Clearly her brother had abused her greatly for their kind, though nothing like the rough callused body of a Dothraki woman. He felt at her womanhood and she let out a small gasp and began to tremble. She had never known a man, and Drogo would be pleased to introduce her to the realm of pleasure – though whether or not she enjoyed herself was of no true concern to him.

The woman began to chatter away excitedly in that harsh western tongue, though it was more panicked and less refined than the boy had used. Drogo had no interest in it at the moment and gagged her with a cloth, held in her mouth by a leather strap.

This was a new experience for him. He had mounted a Khal's share of women, but had always taken those who offered themselves to him or those who he did not bother to bind because they posed no challenge to him. He could have taken her with the binds off, of course, but while she was indisposed, he found no reason not to try something new. He didn't bother to send the girls away as he laid the girl onto his bedroll, face down, ass in the air slightly; exposed and vulnerable.

Drogo took a moment to briefly reflect on the irony that even if Viserys's idea had been entertained, the girl's life would not be all that different. Except, perhaps, that she would not be bound at the moment. It didn't matter at the moment – the girl was his dominion and he would claim her as surely as all the others.

A muffled gasping scream followed by a soft sobbing and the deed had begun. Pain in the girl's womanhood - as well as from the rough-hewn rope digging into her flesh – clouded her mind from any thought other than that of the desperation she felt. Her status had always been the same – a toy of her brother's, meant to be used for whatever his insane desire.

Her life had not changed. Only difference now was the man using her was stronger, and the bindings he kept her in less elegant. She would later learn to appreciate the bitterness of the truth over the sweet illusion of love that Viserys had shown her. Drogo was not a man to hide behind such flattery. His message was clear – she was his toy now and he would put her to use whether she liked it or not.

There was a secret hint of guilt emanating from within her. The struggle against the bonds made her feel alive in a way she had not even back in the Free Cities, surrounded by the remains of wealth and pleasantries. A burning desire to get free from her bonds overtook her, but the struggle was pointless – the rope was rough and tight. And as she slowly became accustomed to the sensation in her womanhood, she felt she would die of shame if she were to voice her feelings: the act was not wholly terrible.

And at once there was freedom. The realization that whatever happened to her was completely out of her hands had always terrified her and made her feel helpless. But she now realized that it was not the state of being an object, but the prospect of uncertainty. Now- whatever else lie ahead of her – one thing was certain. Khal Drogo had certainly taken a keen interest in her. She needn't struggle. She need to only lie back and accept that he would decide her fate from now on. And with that submission a spark of her inner dragon finding some measure of contentment shone bright from within the darkest recesses of her self.

She stopped crying against the gag, stopped struggling against her bonds. There was perfect stillness all through her body as Drogo finished using her. Drogo, interested in the girl's sudden change, turned her over and removed her gag.

And with a sudden furious roar the dragon was awake again. The girl spit in Drogo's face and she barred her fangs at him in a mocking grin.

“Is that the worst you can do to me?” She asked in a defiant growl. “You must be such a boring man.”

Drogo didn't understand her tongue. But he caught her meaning in the smirk, her eyes, and the gap she left willingly in her legs – as far as the rope would let her. This woman was interesting, and Drogo could think of a quite a few more things to pass the time.

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